


Teenage Runaway

by TroubleIWant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Descriptions of Homophobia, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Stiles POV, and bullying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-24 15:23:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3773668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TroubleIWant/pseuds/TroubleIWant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stiles?” the man asks. His expression is somewhere between confused and worried as he pulls his shades off to get a better look, because the person behind the wheel is Derek fucking Hale, heartthrob and basketball star, closest thing to James Dean to ever grace the scuffed linoleum halls of Beacon Hills High. Stiles stares, head and shoulders into the car, his bullshit story about why he was hitchhiking dead on his lips.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Stiles says reflexively.</p>
<p>Derek must misinterpret the pole-axed expression on his face, because he says, “Derek, remember?” like anyone could forget Derek Hale. He’d graduated just a year ago, jetting off to NYU where there were presumably other people as hot and cool as he was. The shocking thing here is that Derek remembers Stiles. Personally, the first thing he intends to do at college is wipe the entirety of high school from his brain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teenage Runaway

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick un-beta'd fic before BB, meaning that every single error is mine. Let me know if you find egregious ones?

 

*

 

The asphalt is crumbling away at the freeway shoulder where Stiles is walking, and he keeps tripping off into the gritty sand that marks the break between the road and the fat lot of nothing beyond it. Straggly grass and broken bottles are just about the only thing there is in the no-man’s-land south of Beacon Hills, plus a few thorny flower bushes and the ever-present hills rolling off to either side, burnt umber with summer heat and drought. Less often than you’d think a car rushes by, here and gone in a _whoosh_ of noise and pulling air currents if Stiles is standing too close. He keeps trying to stick his thumb out in time, but he never quite does.

Which is fine. His feet are getting sore and hot, but it’s only late afternoon and he’s not that tired. It can’t be more than a few more miles to Redding, from where he’s almost certain he can find public transportation to Sacramento, and from there to Berkeley. And then… he hitches his backpack and lacrosse bag higher on his shoulder. He has clean clothes, his computer and debit card, some cash. It’ll be rough for a few weeks while he gets on his feet, maybe, but it’s not like there’s _no plan_. Another car shoots by, and Stiles flails a hand after it, again a few seconds late.

Only this car breaks sharply and pulls over. It’s a black sports car, a little familiar looking, which probably means that if Stiles was better at being a guy he’d know what make and model. As it is, he’s so shocked that he wastes a moment just standing and staring like an idiot before he catches himself and dashes up to where the car had stopped. _Fingers crossed it’s not a serial killer,_ he thinks. It’s not like he’s some strung-out punk who nobody’d miss, but the person behind the wheel doesn’t know that.

It’s worse than a serial killer.

“Stiles?” the man asks. His expression is somewhere between confused and worried as he pulls his shades off to get a better look, because the person behind the wheel is Derek fucking Hale, heartthrob and basketball star, closest thing to James Dean to ever grace the scuffed linoleum halls of Beacon HIlls High. Stiles stares, head and shoulders into the car, his bullshit story about why he was hitchhiking dead on his lips.

“Yeah,” Stiles says reflexively.

Derek must misinterpret the pole-axed expression on his face, because he says, “Derek, remember?” like anyone could forget _Derek Hale_. He’d graduated just a year ago, jetting off to NYU where there were presumably other people as hot and cool as he was. The shocking thing here is that Derek remembers _Stiles_. Personally, the first thing he intends to do at college is wipe the entirety of high school from his brain.

“I know,” Stiles says dumbly. “We had AP calc.” He’d gotten a special exemption to take the class his sophomore year, and that’s probably where Derek remembers him from. He’d been the youngest, easiest to pick on person in the room. Not that Derek had been anything but polite, but maybe the others’ teasing had made an impression. Or... his mouth goes dry with sudden fear. Derek must have tons of facebook friends still in Beacon Hills. There’s enough overlap between the lacrosse jocks and the basketball team that it’s not inconceivable that he’s seen the video.

“Right, with Ms. Fleming,” Derek says, and flashes a quick, devastating smile.

“Right,” Stiles echoes, weakly. Trying to play it cool while stuck in a car with the A-list celebrity of his oh-shit-I-like-dudes wet dreams is pretty fucking low on the list of things he wants right now... But then again, the absolute _last_ thing on said list might be to walk another four hours down this shitty highway, blistering his feet and burning the back of his neck even worse than it already is. “Can I, um, get a ride?”

“I thought you had a jeep,” Derek says, and Stiles blinks in surprise that he remembers that, too.

“In the shop,” he admits. _Also, my dad would abuse his power as sheriff to put out an APB on my license plate,_ he does not admit.

Derek opens his mouth, his eyes flicking to Stiles two bags, but then he shuts it without commenting and shrugs. “Well, get in,” he says and Stiles does.

“I’m eighteen, now, so,” Stiles says in answer to the unasked question. _No, this is not kidnapping a minor. Yes, I know what I’m doing._

“‘Cool,” Derek says lightly. “Where you headed?”

“Berkeley. You?”

“Anywhere,” Derek says with a sudden, cutting intensity, and pulls back onto the freeway with a gut-dropping swerve, gunning the engine up to 70 before Stiles even gets untangled from his bags and buckled in.

*

They pass Redding half an hour later, just after 4:00, and Stiles breathes a belated sigh of relief - he hadn’t even walked as far as he’d thought. The Camaro is nicely air conditioned, and Derek has the radio set low to a top-hits station that keeps the lack of conversation comfortable. Derek guesses they’ll get to Berkeley around 7:30, assuming a few breaks to gas up and pee. Stiles is vague about exactly why he’s going to Berkeley and where he’ll be staying, but Derek miraculously doesn’t push. They don’t talk about Stiles’ dad, or why Derek’s even in California. Every now and again Derek breaks the silence to ask if the air conditioner is too high or not high enough, or to tell Stiles he can change the radio if he wants. Stiles says it’s fine, and it is - sure, it’s a little weird to be in such a confined space with a near stranger, but only a little. Less than it should be.

Stiles is zoning out and watching the latest cookie-cutter suburb whoosh by when a familiar trill of brassy sound comes from the radio, backed by a snapping dancebeat. His _jam_. It had always seemed like a bigger deal than it should have been for him to be out in high school, but for all the expectations he didn’t live up to (“Shouldn’t you dress better if you’re gay?”) he more than made up for it with a sincere love of pop divas. Stiles reaches for the volume to turn the song up, starting to _oh-oh-oh_ along, but his fingers bump into Derek’s already on the knob; he looks up in surprise to meet the same shocked expression looking back at him.

“You like Beyoncé?” Stiles asks, breaking into a disbelieving smile. Of course he’d be the first to argue that taste didn’t equal sexuality unless it was a taste for cock, but… “Isn’t that kinda gay?” Somehow Stiles never imagined Derek Hale, Beacon Hills’ star point guard jock, owning up to loving “Single Ladies.”

Derek shoots him a strange look and lets out a delayed, noncommittal “hm.”

“Um, s-sorry,” Stiles says quietly, cursing himself for teasing. Derek’s taste in music is _kinda gay_? Fuck, now he’s screwed it all up; he’s reminded Derek that he picked up Beacon Hill’s resident queer weirdo and Stiles is going to be walking to Berkeley after all. “I mean, you’re obviously straight.”

Derek shakes his head with a wry smile and a long, level look at Stiles. “Obviously not.”

“Wait, _you’re_...?” Stiles can’t help but squawk, flailing in his seat. What in the hell does Derek think he’s doing that make him “obviously” not straight?

“Bi,” Derek affirms with a casual smile. “I’m out to everyone in New York, and I forget that people don’t just know that about me here, too. You sounded so shocked, do I really-”

“Is that why you remembered me?“ Stiles blurts.

“What?” Derek asks, genuinely surprised.

“The gay thing. I was out, and you… Why else would you even know my name? I mean, I was two years under you.”

Derek blinks twice, quickly, and glances at Stiles inscrutably before refocusing on the road. “No, it’s… You actually talked to me about my family. Tried.”

Stiles flushes, shocked. That’s why Derek remembers him? It’s a conversation he remembers, vividly, but he’d been sure Derek had forgotten.

It had been in the middle of his Freshman year, a few months after the fire. Derek had been a Junior, and undoubtedly the coolest kid in school despite the tragedy. Or because of it. A certain notoriety had rubbed off on Derek and his sisters for being at the center of the biggest thing to happen in Beacon Hills since ever. Plus, he’d had his own car after the fire, he’d been emancipated at only 17, he had been rich and mysterious and tragic. Almost everyone seemed to think his standoffish demeanor was one more part of the too-cool-for-school package. Everyone except Stiles.

Nobody’d thought Stiles was cooler for losing a parent. He’d been too young to keep it to himself, had cried in the bathroom at lunch rather than earning any points for stoicism. But while all the other kids fawned over Derek’s aloof attitude, Stiles had a funny idea that they were wrong, and he was the only one with an inkling of what was going on behind that devil-may-care facade. So one day at lunch, totally oblivious to cafeteria conventions, he’d gone right up to the basketball table, sat down uninvited and said, “I’m really sorry about your family. My name’s Stiles, I’m a freshman? I know you probably don’t wanna talk about it, but if you do… My mom had frontotemporal dementia and she died when I was nine, so I mean. I kind of get it, what it’s like to lose family.”

“What?” Derek had snapped.

“I said, if you wanted somebody to talk to...”

“I know what you said. You think you _understand_? Your mom was sick and she died, that happens all the time. That’s normal. My whole family was _murdered_.”

Stiles had been rendered speechless for once, mouth hanging open like a goldfish, horrified and ashamed that he’d gotten it so wrong. Only, of course he had. Trying to use his mother’s death as an excuse to talk to his crush? Morbid and pathetic. A minute later one of the other basketball kids had arrived and told him to scram. Derek had been staring down at his lunch as if Stiles was already gone, so he’d scrambled off of the bench and left, face red, angry with himself for not realizing the obvious: he was still a loser. Just because they had one thing in common didn’t mean they were _friends_.

Stiles had been too nervous to even look at Derek after that, though his humiliating attempt at conversation never turned into a school wide joke like he thought it might. In Calculous the next year, Derek hadn’t acknowledged that they’d ever spoken before, and Stiles considered the incident thankfully forgotten. Except that Derek hadn’t forgotten, even years later. Stiles wasn’t sure at all what to make of it.

“Oh, right,” he mumbles. “That.”

“Yeah, I… I’m sorry,” Derek winces, keeping his eyes on the car in front of them. “I was so angry at everything back then. Not an excuse, I know, but it wasn’t your fault.” He does look over then, his bright hazel eyes impossibly earnest. “It was a really brave, kind thing to do. I shouldn’t have been such a dick about it.”

“It’s cool,” Stiles says.

“No, it’s not,” Derek replies, glaring back at the road. His mouth is twisted up in frustration. “I didn’t ever apologize, even after I realized what a fucking asshole I’d been. I-”

“Hey,” Stiles interrupts again, surprised at how quick Derek is to be angry at himself. “You apologized now, didn’t you? When I said, “I kind of get it,” I meant that part, too. Like, you have no idea what a little shit I was to my dad the year my mom died. When I say we’re cool, we’re cool.”

Now it’s Derek who’s sitting with his mouth open, but only for a second. “Thanks,” he says softly.

They lapse into silence and the radio fills it, flipping over to the next song. _I wanna share your mouthful,_ the singer croons, and Stiles can’t help but identify with the lyrics a little, mouth moving with the the words as he sneaks a glance Derek, reevaluating. _I wanna do all the things your lungs do so well._

*

Somehow, even with one more pitstop that strictly necessary, they’re passing the ten-miles-to-Berkeley sign sooner than Stiles would like. After their trip down memory lane, the intermittent conversation had been more chatty than just AC check ins - still mostly centered around the music, other cars or the weird signs off the freeway, but easy and fun. Stiles feels a pang of regret when Derek takes the Shattuck exit, but as they idle at the first red light, he realizes that he should have spent the last few hours doing some planning about what he was going to say to his unexpected companion once they arrived rather than admiring said companion’s profile.

“Where you staying?” Derek asks, as if on cue.

“Right at… uh, this is close enough. You can drop me wherever,” Stiles mutters, shrinking into his seat.

Derek gives him a long, flat look. “You seriously have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

Jesus, he sounds just like Stiles’ dad, dismissive second-guessing. “Yes, I do!” Stiles explodes, because it’s true - he’s been planning this move for the last two years, and even if this isn’t the way he hoped things would go, it’s surely not the same as having no idea what he’s doing.

“I’m an adult, okay?” he insists. “I graduated early and I’m going to Berkeley this year. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Derek arches an eyebrow. “So, you have a place to stay.”

“I have a dorm room,” Stiles says, losing some steam. “Or, I will. In... August.”

Derek heaves a sigh. “You wanna split a hotel?”

“I… Sure,” Stiles says in a small voice. He’s a bit embarrassed for his outburst, but more than that he’s startled that Derek’s not telling him that he’s turning this car around to drive Stiles home to his dad this very moment. Honestly, his plan is starting to sound stupid even to him. He’s still pissed at his dad for trying to force him into an unnecessary extra year of highschool, but he would probably be back home by now if Derek hadn’t pulled over. Not that he’d ever admit that to Derek, of course.

They stop at a La Quinta off University and pay way too much for a room on the third floor. Derek makes a run to the 7-11 down the street for a toothbrush, even though Stiles said he could use his. He comes back with an electric razor, some hair gel, a can of pringles and soap. Stiles doesn’t comment on how it seems like Derek’s gotten himself into a bit of a pot-kettle situation accusing Stiles of having no plan.

Derek doesn’t have extra clothes either, and they don’t sell those at the corner store, so Stiles loans him a shirt to sleep in and then tries not to oggle too much when Derek changes into it in front of him. It goes almost as well as trying to ignore the way the fabric’s tight against his broader shoulders and pecs - which is to say, not well at all.

Other than that moment of - dare he say it? - sexual tension, getting ready for bed together is weirdly comfortable. All the bustling around each other feels familiar, after so many years of living with just him and his dad. The thought comes with a pang of guilt. While Derek’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth, Stiles turns on his phone to find about 12 missed calls and a long list of increasingly frantic texts from his dad. He shoots a text back: “im fine,” echoing the note he left on the fridge, though in fewer words. “got a hotel for the night, don’t worry,” he adds. He turns his phone to airplane mode just as Derek shuts the water off.

“Well, goodnight,” Derek says awkwardly, turning the bathroom light off behind him. He steps out of his jeans before crawling into the bed that doesn’t have Stiles’ bags piled at the foot. Stiles lays down on the other and flicks off the reading light. The sheets are scratchy and smell faintly of bleach. His eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, but he’s not very tired despite his walk earlier in the day.

“Why aren’t you telling me I should just go back home?” he says quietly.

“You might tell me the same thing,” comes the wry answer.

“Fair,” Stiles has to admit. “But you’re not, like, worried that I’m doing something really stupid?”

Derek sighs, and rolls over to face Stiles. The orange light from the street through the rough curtains is bright enough that Stiles can see the outline of his face even across the gap between the beds. “I’m not not worried about you,” Derek says. “It’s just, who am I to give you life advice? Sure, it’s weird that you’re out hitch-hiking across the state rather than hanging out with your friends for your last summer. Of course I’m wondering how OK your dad is with you staying in a strange town with someone like me. But, whatever you’re doing for whatever reason, you cannot be fucking up as badly as I fucked up.”

Stiles scoffs. “I find that hard to believe.”

Derek shakes his head, but Stiles can’t make out his expression in the gloom. “Just go to sleep,” he says, and rolls over again.

 

*

“Damn, this is the longest I’ve ever gone without shaving,” Stiles groans, stroking his cheek. They’ve been puttering around the hotel for almost a week now, explicitly not talking about anything longer term than their next meal while they loaf around the shops on Shattuck and University in the afternoons, or while they get In ‘n Out for dinner, and not even when they sit around and watch TV or listen to music in the evenings. It’s been surprisingly easy to start life fresh, as if they have no pasts at all - not even ones to avoid. “Whaddaya think, should I keep it?” He makes a point of mugging at Derek, jutting his scruffy chin out with an exaggerated underbite.

It only earns him another flat look. “Shave,” Derek says firmly, pushing his razor into Stiles’ hands. “Should keep the hair though,” he adds.

He tangles his fingers through the spiky strands and gives Stiles’ head a playful tug as he passes. The ghost of pressure and warmth on Stiles’ scalp catches something in his chest. Yes, Stiles thinks as he runs his own hands through the ridges Derek’s fingers made, he should keep the hair. Maybe forever.

Whatever small crush he’d harbored in high school has come back full blown after a few days in such close proximity. Derek is heartrendingly easy to get along with, with his dry humor and expressive eyebrows. They like similar books, movies, and Derek keeps introducing him to music he likes in between indulging Stiles’ taste. The one large purchase they’ve made is a bluetooth speaker, a bizarre indulgence that Derek had shrugged off, pointing out he had plenty of money. Stiles hadn’t been able to bring himself to argue, afraid of bringing up exactly how Derek ended up with that windfall. Derek’s also still paying for the hotel, and Stiles’ protests that he’s going to chip in are getting weaker. His $312 in cash really won’t go far. Still, he tries to pick up the tab for their lunches. He thinks they’re mostly square, not financially but in a more general sense.

He finishes shaving and nods at Derek, who’s reading Stiles’ copy of Neverwhere on his bed, to indicate that the bathroom’s free. He distracts himself with Derek’s playlist while the other boy showers, focusing on the lyrics of his new favorite Grimes song - _Did I even want it? Did I just assume that’s how it had to be?_ \- rather than on the fact that Derek’s just one door away, naked. He can hear the shushing spray of water change as Derek moves under the flow, probably shampooing now, then rinsing the suds off, sluicing the foam down his neck and muscled shoulders to the narrowing of his waist... It’s a relief when the water shuts off.

“Hey, do you wanna, um, go somewhere today?” Derek asks when he gets out of the bathroom, fully dressed and tousling his hair dry.

Stiles feels his heart tick up. Derek doesn’t mean just down the street. Somewhere like what, Beacon Hills? Stiles isn’t ready to go home, not at all. “Erm,” he hedges.

“You don’t have a plan,” Derek says defensively. “Until August anyways. Me neither, so…”

“San Diego,” Stiles blurts. “Lets go to the beach.”

Derek actually looks surprised. “What?”

“That’s what you meant, right? Roadtrip?” Derek nods hesitantly, and Stiles finds himself nodding vigorously back. “Let’s do it.”

*

Being back in the car is nice. The quality of the silence is totally different from that first ride, even more companionable, and the freeway here’s a bit emptier in the middle of the week so Derek can speed, not even caring that Stiles has got the windows down to the late-summer warmth. He sticks his hand out into the cutting wind, scooping it around the air currents. It feels like they could go anywhere, like the months till school starts are suddenly full of opportunity rather than anxiety.

“You mind if I put on something trashy?” Stiles checks in. He’s tried to play mostly trendy indie stuff so far, out of some silly desire to impress Derek, but right now he just wants a good beat and some peppy choruses to fit his ebullient mood. He’s started to feel like maybe he doesn’t need to act like someone else for Derek to like him.

“I keep telling you, there’s no need to pretend you’re too cool to like pop,” Derek grins. “I think we established I love queen Bey as much as the next guy.”

Stiles doesn’t even bother hiding his smile as he flips through to his playlist of feel-good tunes, and settles for hitting shuffle. It feels like a good day to just leave it all up to chance.

The car fills with the rich sound of one of his favorites, and he can’t help but join in on the chorus. “Hey, geronimo, hey, geronimo,” he sings under his breath, drumming the beat on the passenger door with his fingers. It feels appropriate - for the first time in his life the lyrics fit.

He catches Derek looking and trails off, but Derek doesn’t laugh or tease. If anything he looks happy about Stiles’ off key singing, which can’t be right. But by the next song he can’t help but start up again, vigorously air drumming before the lyrics hit.

“It was summer when I saw your face, looked like a teenage runaway,” Stiles sings, tuneless but joyful. “And God, I never thought we’d take it that far - some killer queen you are,” he says, pointing a jokey finger at Derek, who grins.

“Now I’m running and I can’t stop, anywhere I go, think about it every day and night I can’t let go,” Stiles sings, dancing with his shoulders in his seat. It’s fun and casual, right until Stiles almost trips over the next line about shotgun lovers, and come a little closer, and shit, this is more of a love song that he’d remembered.

He fumbles into silence during the next section, blushing, hoping Derek isn’t listening too carefully to what he’s not singing, careful to look straight ahead rather than at his companion. The situation’s embarrassing enough that he’s considering just switching songs to the next one after the chorus.

“Ro-oh-lercoaster!” Derek sings in a nervous burst, and he looks over to Stiles, laughing at himself, and Stiles is shocked for a split second before somehow they’re basically screaming the chorus to each other, all “and I don’t say no, oh-olercoaster and you don’t say no…” and it isn’t so weird at all.

Derek doesn’t know all the lyrics, so he doesn’t sing anything but the choruses, but he taps his fingers on the wheel and bobs his head, and Stiles flail-dances as awkwardly as you can seatbelted in, _bah-bah_ ing to the instrumentals. Doing it together pretty much takes the weirdness out of it.

That works until the bridge, when the music slows and turns serious. There’s no way to ignore the lyrics now. It might be awkward to cut off, but Stiles could. He could just stop like before, just not sing this part. But he does. Head turned against the headrest so he can look at Derek, Stiles sing along with enough breath behind his voice that he’s sure Derek hears: “Why don’t you come a little closer… there’s something I could tell you…”

Derek should watch the road, but it’s only a straight away and he turns so they’re looking at each other. Time goes syrupy slow, and the lyrics feel like they were written just for the two of them, like they’re the perfect expression of what’s happening.

Derek drags his eyes away and it hits Stiles suddenly and inevitably: Derek likes him. _Like_ -likes him. The idea of that takes root and grows warm deep in his chest, expanding with every breath the sense of impending possibility. The song’s last punchy chorus flips over to Carley Rae’s newest, breaking the moment, and Derek clears his throat.

“What band was that, they’re good,” Derek says.

“Bleachers? Not sure if it’s like the chemical or with two Es,” Stiles says, and Derek picks up his phone to check it. He glances, then check the road before giving it a longer look, frowning.

“Why’s the playlist called “shitty day”?”

“Oh,” Stiles says. He’d forgotten that it was titled that way, or that it was a strange name for a happy playlist. “Nothing, just… sometimes I have shitty days and this is my “get through it” playlist.”

Derek glances down again, scrolling up with his thumb with a serious expression that makes Stiles feel pinned. “It’s seven hours long.”

“I had shitty days a lot, I guess,” Stiles says quietly, looking out the window at the trees whipping by rather than having to see the pity on Derek’s face.

There’s a short pause, and Derek probably wants to say something meaningful, apologetic. Stiles doesn’t want to hear it. That was from before, and they don’t talk about before.

“Haven’t had one in a while,” he offers lightly, heading anything more serious off. He glances back from the window to catch Derek biting back a smile. His hair is ruffled from the wind, his jaw dark with a few days stubble that only sharpens his jawline. God, he’s good-looking.

“Hey, Derek?” the other boy glances at him, quirking an eyebrow. “Ask me what I’m doing.”

Derek’s expression goes soft. “What are you doing, Stiles? Why are you running away?”

Steels himself. He wants Derek to know. “I have _never_ fit in. Okay? That’s not new. But I told myself it didn’t matter ‘cause it was just the small-town prequel to real life. I worked my fucking ass off to get out of there early. Only my dad, he loved high school. He always thought I would, too, wanted me to get a varsity letter, go to senior prom, whole nine yards. He made me sign up for lacrosse camp over the summer like that would convince me to stay. And this guy Matt…” Stiles almost stops. “He started wanting to hang out all the time at practice, telling me I was cool. I should have known, right? I should have fucking _known_.”

“Known what?”

Stiles rolls his shoulders. “That he was jerking me around.”

Derek seems genuinely confused. “How would you have known that?”

Stiles sighs. _Because I’m not cool. Because nothing is ever that fucking good and easy for me_. But he doesn’t argue. “I felt like it was the start of things going right, you know? Matt’s acting like I’m the shit, and nobody was teasing me, and it was like this big confirmation that “it gets better,” tee emm.”

“But,” Derek prompts quietly.

“There’s a video,” Stiles says. “Good quality, you have to give him to him for knowing his shit. He’d invited me to this party and said there’s gonna be a guy there he thinks would be, you know, into me. And he kind of hyped it up until I get all excited, too.” Stiles stops to clear his throat. “Then, surprise! I get there all dressed up and, you know, obviously there’s no party - not one I’m invited to. Half the team’s in on it, they’re all just waiting to get a look at the hilarious, pathetic homo. Blah, blah, blah.” He should never have watched the video, but he had. Had seen himself realize he’d been tricked, watched as he fucking crumpled and took what they were dishing instead of fighting back. He wishes he didn’t know way his face looked wearing that particular mix of shame and tears but thanks to Matt, everyone does.

“The day after, it was totally viral. Like that thing with the epileptic girl a couple years back? I saw it on my wall like five times before I logged off of facebook.”

“Stiles...” Derek says, but he can’t stop, just barrels on despite the interruption.

“The worst part is, like when I was a freshman it was just stupid homophobic stuff like, “Stilinksi sticks stuff up his buttski” which you have to admit has a certain alliterative poetry to it. And I could deal with that. I mean it’s not the 80’s, if Matt was bashing me for liking dudes then he’s this anti-gay creep, right? It’s on news.com, oh, You’ll Never Believe what this Homophobe Does Next! But it’s not a gay thing it’s a _loser_ thing. It’s just the same old popular jocks taking the piss out of the lonely nerd, and nobody gives a shit about that.

“I couldn’t go back there, and I couldn’t tell my Dad why, and he kept saying I’d change my mind and want another year of that crap and… and here I am. I was actually worried you might have seen it,” he admits quietly.

“I wouldn’t have watched,” Derek says, and it’s almost too much.

Stiles takes a shuddery breath. “So, you got worse than that?”

“I killed my family,” Derek says quietly.

Stiles stares. A breath later he sputters, “Jesus, don’t…! Nobody actually thinks you had anything to do with the fire, people were just stirring shit up with those rumors. It was Katherine whatsername, the arsonist, everyone knows that. I mean she fled the country, that’s… that’s like guilty people 101. And they got her, for God’s sake, the trial’s why you were in Beacon Hills, right? Fuck, Derek, why would you say...”

“I was sleeping with her,” Derek interrupts. “That’s how she knew where the spare key was.” His hands are so tight on the steering wheel his knuckles are white and ridged with tendons, but his eyes look lost and desperate, resolutely not looking at Stiles.

Stiles’ rant deflates, and he’s left with his mouth hanging open, unsure what to say. There’s got to be a perfect sentence that he could use here, one that sums up everything he’s thinking: that it’s fucked up, what she did is fucked up, to make him think it’s his fault, but that Derek’s not fucked up - that it _wasn’t_ his fault and he shouldn’t have to think that, when it’s hard enough to shoulder losing family without the guilt. That it sucks beyond belief that he’s blaming himself for it, because he’s literally perfect and Stiles loves him.

Only Stiles can’t quite think of what that sentence could be, and the only part that’s sticking in his head is "I love you" and he can’t say that.

“I’m supposed to testify,” Derek says into the pause that Stiles’ indecision left. “They want to call me as a witness to really nail down the conviction, but that means I’m going to have to… and the lawyers keep saying that the other side’s gonna try and make it seem really bad and I just…” Derek cuts off, his jaw clenching. “I don’t think I can talk about it in front of all those people. In front of my sisters.”

“Okay,” Stiles says.

Derek finally turns towards him, blinking owlishly. “Okay what?”

“Okay then _don’t_ ,” Stiles says. “Fuck it, we’re going to San Diego. I mean, they got enough to convict her without you, right? So fuck it.”

“Fuck it?” Derek says, half question and half confirmation. His expression is shocked, but also free of the dragging weight that had appeared talking about Kate. It’s enough to make Stiles feel buoyant as well and they both laugh, a little hysterical.

“You really want to go with me?” Derek confirms, suddenly serious. “Still?”

“Yeah,” Stiles reassures him, reaching out impulsively to press their hands together. “It wasn’t your fault,” he adds on the off chance that nobody’s told him yet. Derek smiles, not the largest or most joyfully Stiles has seen, but somehow this private smile that only just shows off his front teeth is Stiles’ favorite yet.

*

They make it all the ways to Monterey by that evening, talking about everything and nothing. Edging around the building tension, not looking at it head on. Come sevenish, Derek pulls the Camaro over and they watch the sunset from the side of the road, leaning against the passenger side. Stiles edges closer to Derek, savoring the last fading purple light even as he wishes he could freeze time right there, stop the day from ending at all. After it’s gone dark for a few minutes they’re still standing there, sides almost touching.

Derek turns to him and Stiles’ heart speeds up. This is on the table, this more-than-friend thing, they’re going to kiss. He’s know it since the sing-along that Derek wanted him, but now it’s actually happening. Derek places a hand on the car at either side of Stiles’ hips and tilts his head like he’s going for it. But then he’s still, just looking and waiting, as if he’s really not sure Stiles wants this, too. But oh, how could there be a question if he wants this? Stiles closes his eyes, lifts his face to Derek’s and then they’re kissing, closed mouths but soft and warm and close.

Derek pulls away first, but it felt so good to be kissed like that, tenderly, that Stiles is almost drunk with it. He tips forward, chasing the sensation, and their next kiss is just as sweet and gentle as the first... Right until it’s less gentle, their mouths opening to each other and their bodies somehow tangled tight, pulled snug against the car. It’s less gentle until they’ve been kissing so long he needs to breathe. They break apart like distance swimmers coming up for air - just enough to refill their lungs and then they’re pressed together again, awkward teeth-bumping-teeth kisses edged with desperation but its still so good, even when Stiles laughs a little into Derek’s mouth and the kisses go from passionate to sloppy to soft and slow, and finally stop. They stand with their foreheads bumping and chests heaving, out of breath.

“You know what?”

“Hm?” Derek hums, leaning back to look at his face but letting his hips playfully into Stiles, still bracketing him against the Camaro.

Stiles nuzzles into the crook of his neck, “I really, really, really like you,” he whispers, as if it’s a secret. Derek laughs softly, twines their fingers together a bit tighter.

They stay like that for a long time, as the stars come out and the traffic dies down.

“We should go back, huh,” Derek murmurs. Stiles can tell from his tone that he isn’t just talking about the car, or even the hotel in Berkeley.

“Yeah,” Stiles answers, because he knows it’s true. The idea of escape has it’s allure, but neither of them is really the type to run for good. Their real lives are waiting. “Are things going to be…? I mean, is this…?”

“I don’t know,” Derek says, dipping his chin to look earnestly at Stiles. “I think… do you want it to?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, shuddery with exactly how much. But he’s thinking _Berkeley to New York_ and he’s thinking _hot NYU students he doesn’t know or trust_ , thinking about _increased workloads_ and _GPA_ and he’s wondering if he can handle all that plus his first relationship, _plus_ long distance, he’s thinking a million things and none of them particularly hopeful.

But Derek kisses him again with his broad hands in Stiles’ not-quite-buzzed hair, and then Stiles isn’t thinking at all. He’s just there in the moment, blood pulsing hot under his own skin that’s pressed tight to Derek’s. He’s only thinking of how that feels, of the specific taste of Derek’s mouth. Even after they stop kissing, his head stays as clear as the cooling California night air.

Derek squeezes his hand before goes around to the driver’s side, and Stiles folds himself into his own seat thinking _Spring Break_ and _Summer_ and _finished high school in three years, didn’t I?_ and hell, he could learn to like the East Coast. Derek will start the car, and they’ll drive back to Beacon Hills and their responsibilities. He’ll be there for Derek while he testifies, Derek will help him convince his dad about Berkeley this year, and then… Stiles look over the console, smiles at Derek. Then, anything. Together, they can face whatever happens next.

****  
*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much for reading (and commenting?!?) This has been a continuation of the series "Derek and Stiles fall in love by doing things Alice enjoys." No, not driving - listening to pop music! Previous fics in this series feature [crosswords](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3189839) and [reading](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2686109). I'm old, what can I say.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/troubleiwant) for drabbles, headcanons, WIPs and general flailing.


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